


Breathe In, Breathe Out

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Buried Alive, Cuddles, Damian has a lot of time to think, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Trauma, dealing with after the fact, not a halloween story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: When patrol goes wrong and Damian finds himself buried in a crate all he has are this thoughts to keep him company while he waits (and hopes) for rescue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Halloween content war day 6 Death. A special thank you to Audreycritter and TheGalacticPope for helping me figure out dimensions for this fic.

The repetitive noise of _thump thump thump_ above him woke Damian. He was in darkness, and his head was pounding, the air felt hot and stifled. Where was he? What happened? His brain was slow in giving answers. He moved to sit up, making it halfway before his head bumped against wood.

He hissed as pain bloomed again, meeting the ache in the back of his skull. The sound above him stopped, and then voices began to argue in muffled tones. One shouted, there was silence, and then the thumping started again.

Damian reached out above him and then around, finding wood all around. A box. He was in some kind of box. A shipping container, he remembered. It’s label had said something about it containing an in box refrigerator but it really held packing peanuts and small bombs. Now he was stuck in it. Maybe forever.

No he couldn’t think like that. He would get out.

He had a sinking suspicion of what the sound was, but he didn’t want to admit it. Instead he reached up and pressed his hands to the top of the box, firm solid wood meeting him as he pushed.

The lid shifted just slightly, something catching to hold it in place before dirt poured in. Then another thump resounded, knocking the tiny bit of space he’d opened down again. Damian spluttered, frantically rubbing the dirt off his face.

He sucked in a breath. They were burying him.

Panic bloomed in his chest and he tried to shove at the lid again, the lock on the outside catching, as more dirt poured in. There was a shout, and then what sounded like a foot slamming down on the lid of the box, knocking it back down.

He stifled a cry, it wouldn’t do to waste air right now. He had to think, maybe there was some way to stop them burying him completely. Maybe Father was just about to arrive, following him on his reckless flight after their fight that evening. Grayson would be right behind him. Both ready to stop the men attempting to bury him alive.  

Damian winced, it was doubtful either Father or Grayson had followed him. They had taken to letting him work out his anger on his own lately, and if he ran it was up to him to make it home.

All Damian wanted in that moment was to make it home. To step back into the cave, apologies on his lips about his overreacting. It didn’t matter that Father had been wrong, or that Grayson had taken his side (again). The betrayal Damian had felt was nothing compared to the regret eating away at him now.

_No._

He had to stop thinking that way. Stop and breathe, not too deeply though, he had to conserve his air. Think about what needed to be done. If he could not get out, he needed to get his family to him.

He reached up tap his comm and turn it on, ready to call out for help and alert the others of his situation. He did not care how weak it made him seem, or what it would look like to be found in this position. He did, but not nearly as much as he did not want to stay here.

The comm was gone. Either knocked away when he’d been hit or purposefully removed by the men. Damian had to count to keep his breathing slow and even. The comm was not the only way to alert his family to his problem.

He fumbled for the distress beacon on his uniform, sighing as he found it in place and intact. He turned it on, and looked down at the small blinking red light.

Father would come. Grayson may accompany him. He would be fine.

He tried not to move too much, lying in the dark, the thump thump of dirt pouring over his box his only companion. There was some comfort in still being able to hear the noise. The slight tremors of it shaking through the box. As long as he could hear it he wasn’t fully submerged. There was some chance of escape, there was still fresh air leaking into the box. If he broke the wood he would not be completely flooded with dirt.

His fingers brushed against his utility belt, his mind going over everything he had inside. By his calculations he had around an hour before the carbon dioxide he was releasing from his lungs got dangerous. It would take too long to hack his way out with a batarang, besides he knew how solid the the wood was, there was no promise he’d even break through before dulling the blade completely.

It was too small to set off any kind of explosive device. Fire would only burn Damian and his air before it would eat through the wood. Worst of all, he didn’t have enough room to leverage the top open, especially as it was further and further weighed down with dirt.

He swallowed down a bubble of panic. Damian did not want to be the first Robin to die twice.

Darkness or not, the walls felt stifling, as if they were shrinking around him. He knew they were not. Damian wondered briefly if this was what it would be like if he’d woken up in his coffin. If this was how Todd felt when he had woken in his own.

Was there a difference in being buried alive and in waking already buried? Damian did not think so. And if there was it was only when the panic truly set in. If one woke already buried it took time for their mind to realize what happened. If they knew it was happening, well Damian’s mind was already racing. Panic fighting sense.

What would it be like to die again? It would not be as painful as it had the first time. This would be a different kind, an aching, mind wandering, drifting off. Damian would be here and then gone.

Where would he end up this time? A darkened place with no light like this? Or the soft, gentle waiting place he’d found himself in after his first death? He remembered shadows of people, people he could trust. Love. Perhaps that would not be so bad.

Only he would be leaving Father again, and Grayson. Damian was not sure Pennyworth could take losing another. He was not sure anyone in the family could. Damian did not want to think about Grayson’s possible reaction. He had been told how badly his first death had affected the man, had seen it in Grayson’s willingness to join Spyral and throw everything away. Could Damian do that to him again? Did he have a choice?

Would Father attempt to bring him back again? Would the universe allow a third try?

He shook his head, the back scratching against the wood, the shifting sound of his hair on it closer than he’d like.

He lay there for what felt like forever, telling himself the same things: Father would come. Grayson would come. Someone would come. His distress beacon was on, they could track him. Find him.

Except.

What if being buried somehow hindered the tracker? Could there be deposits in the soil that stopped Batman from being able to find him? That stopped the signal from going out altogether? It was unlikely. Damian knew that. It did not stop the fear from creeping into his mind. He broke down the specs about the tracker in his mind. Telling himself how well it was built. It’s range. What it was designed to work past. It’s weaknesses. He did not linger too long on that last part, and even so he still worried they would not be able to find him with it.

What if they thought it was a faulty signal? He was buried, they would not think to look underground for him? No, they would check any remaining containers around them. Was he even still near the warehouse he’d been in? Or had he been moved somewhere else? He thought he remembered ditches around the old building, but he wasn’t sure. What he knew was that he was hidden, and hard to find.

If they did not find him he would die here. How would everyone feel if he simply disappeared. Would they think he’d run off? Returned to Talia and his grandfather? What was worse, them imagining that or them knowing he was missing and never finding him?

Would they even care?

Damian had to force that thought to the back of his mind. Of course they would care. He held onto that thought as he lay, trying to keep his breathing as slow as possible.

Silence was all around him. He realized it with a sudden jerk. The thumping and showering of dirt had stopped. When had it stopped? Long enough to grow used to the silence. Time worked weird in the dark, Damian had no idea how much had passed, only that too much was gone. He wondered when the oxygen around him would be too flooded with carbon dioxide to be safe. What were the numbers again? He was sure it was worse for children, smaller bodies could handle less than adults.

Damian put his hands up above him and pushed, this time nothing moved. It was like he’d knelt down to push on concrete or was trying to shove over one of the natural walls of the cave.

It was hot and stifling and he wanted out. He wanted to go home. He wanted his father and Grayson. He wanted to see light again. He wanted to apologize to Drake, and Todd, and anyone else he’d hurt.

He wanted out.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and his chest heaved. He tried to stop it, heaving panting breaths would only raise the carbon dioxide content faster. He was already feeling the effects. Beyond the pain from his concussion his head hurt, and his thoughts were slipping. That thought alone caught tears in his throat and sped his breathing faster.

He was going to die. Again. Alone and by himself and not even doing anything heroic this time.

A stupid fight, a stupid dumb pointless, fight was the difference between him returning home and not at all.

Damian had been terrible to Father and Grayson. He’d been angry, and rude, and ‘ _just like you were in the beginning’._ He had failed the day before, stewed on it all day, and then insisted on trying again. Father was right to tell him to take the night off. If he’d listened he wouldn’t be here. Failing again.

What if. What if this was the final straw? Damian had pushed his luck long enough with Father. He had not even wanted Damian to begin with. Had sent him back home to Mother after their first meeting. Damian had known then that Father would never accept him. Never want him by his side, not the same way Damian did.

All he’d wanted was to know him. To be able to live up to his expectations. The greatest detective. An incredible man. The only one worthy to be his father. Talia had filled his head with nothing but praise, and Damian had not been able to stand up to a single expectation of his, despite training his entire life to do so.

It was Grayson who’d saved him. Grayson who’d taken him in. Who had loved him. And Damian had yelled at him too. Screamed that he’d wished he’d never come to either of them. Told him he didn’t care what he thought. Didn’t care that he cared.

A tear slipped down his cheek, past his defenses. He should not have said that. His last words to his brother were angry, spiteful, and not at all true. And yet Grayson would go on believing Damian felt that way.

He curled in on himself as much as the box would allow. His back pressing against one side, his knees pushing into the opposite, his arms wrapped around his middle.

Sometimes he hated himself more than he hated anything in the world.

He was not a good kid, nowhere near it. Not with the way he had to struggle to be good. Not with the biting words he defaulted to. Not with how he was hurtful more than helpful. Damian hated how he was raised. Hated that it was wrong. Hated that he knew it was and that he still couldn’t escape it. Grayson said he believed in him. He told him how much he trusted Damian. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

He was selfish. Everything was him wanting. Wanting his father. Wanting his mother’s pride. Wanting Grayson’s pride. When had he done something for anything but himself?

There was a little voice in the back of his aching head that said all of this wasn’t true. It sounded a bit like Grayson and told him all the things that were good about him. How he loved animals. How he liked to nudge his family towards healthy options. His helping Pennyworth without asking. On and on it listed things that Damian squeezed his eyes shut against.

Even Grayson’s voice could not convince him he didn’t deserve to be trapped in this box.

A sob escaped his chest, loud in the tiny black space. Instead of holding it back, he let it flood him. Heaving choking sobs that sucked up the air around him. No one could see this moment of weakness, or hear the disgraceful sounds coming from him. No one was coming.

Father would not come. Grayson was not following. He was going to die here.

He cried harder, until he felt like he’d let every tear pour out and flood the wood around him. He sniffed. He rubbed at his face, streaking the wet tears across his cheeks. Then rubbed at his nose that would not stop running, the scratchy material of his uniform doing little more than irritate it.

His head hurt. Everything hurt. Little white specks floated in his vision. He knew he couldn’t see them, yet there they were. Dancing across the blackness. It was weird. He was surrounded by darkness, yet he knew it only extended so far in front of him. Somewhere in the world there was still light. He hoped his death did not stuff out any of them.

Damian started to drift off, the hot clammy air, and stifling feeling of his uniform enough to tempt sleep to come over him. If he slept he would not feel the heat, or his headache. He’d stop seeing stars and flecks and phantom smiles from his brother.

Something above him scratched. There was a thump. The sounds of spilled beads. _Scratch, scratch, bump, thump, skitter, boom-thump_. Damian couldn’t remember if auditory hallucinations were part of suffocation. They must be.

He curled a little bit further against the noise. He did not want to hear it. It broke the silence and teased hope in his chest. No one was coming. He reminded himself again. Those noises were the final firings of his brain in an attempt to lull him into false security.

Then the top came off his crate, bringing freezing Gotham air that wrapped around him and loose dirt to spill over him.

“Damian! Bruce, he’s here, he was in here!”

Damian flinched back away from the cold. The voice. The relief. The light fighting against his eyes that had grown used to the dark. He pressed them closed. He was dreaming. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t--then hands were on him, scooping him up and out, and he made a sound. A sob? A cry? He didn’t know. He did know that his head hurt, and now he was cold and hot, and all he wanted was to feel safe. So, he pressed himself as close as he could to Grayson and tried not to cry again.

“Hey, kiddo. You’re safe, I got you.” His brother’s voice was gentle, his arms strong, “I’m gonna hand you up to your dad, okay?”

Damian didn’t respond. He didn’t want Grayson to let go of him, but he wasn’t sure his limbs would cooperate long enough for him to fight. The warmth of his brother’s chest was replaced by cold again, and he cracked his eyes open long enough to see the black of his Father’s uniform. Then he was pulled into arms, and against kevlar that was still chilly, but firm, and solid, and the air in Damian’s lungs was fresh. He pressed his face against his father’s chest breathing in the plasticy, dirty, smoggy smell that never seemed to leave the uniform.

It was so much better than the smell of that box.

Damian half listened as Grayson climbed out of the hole. The hole he'd been buried in. Where he'd almost died. Damian did not want to look at it. But it felt like cowardice not to look. He pulled back, away from where he'd hidden his face to turn back, craning his neck to see it.

Unremarkable. That's what the hole looked like. One place in the landscape of piles of dirt around the warehouse. Father’s hand pressed against his back as Damian turned back towards him.

“I'm sorry.” He said, his voice hoarse. The words broke his composure again and he hiccupped a sob, “I didn't mean to.” To what he didn't know. It was all he could get out, his throat closing against tears.

“It's okay.” His father murmured back, “You're safe, that's what matters.”

Damian couldn't find an answer as they began moving, he was too tired. Somehow he fell asleep in his father’s arms and woke groggily to find Grayson attempting to lift him out of the batmobile. He pushed his hands away and tried to step out, but his legs gave out like jello. His brother caught him and scooped him into his arms.  

Damian gave up any attempts at fighting off his brother’s comfort and let himself be carried. He told himself he was doing it for Grayson, and not because he couldn't bear to break contact. Any moment away from his family threatened to return him to the feeling of being trapped in darkness and hot air.

He went through the motions, letting Pennyworth and Father fuss over him, while Grayson hovered. Then moved only to help as Grayson pulled him out of his uniform and into soft pajamas. Each moment leading him closer to being alone again.

“Richard.” Damian said, as he was being tucked into bed. His brother pulling blankets up to his chin.

He wanted to ask him to stay, to be by his side the whole time he slept. Wanted to tell him that every time he closed his eyes he was back in that box and if he was alone he was afraid he really would be there again.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.” Damian murmured, gripping his blanket so he wouldn’t reach out for his brother.

His brother pressed a kiss to his forehead, “I love you, Damian.”

Damian turned his head away, “Mm sorry I ran off.”

Grayson sat down on the edge of the bed. He carded his fingers through Damian's hair, “I'm sorry I didn't chase after you tonight.”

“You came. That's what matters.” Damian said, looking back at him.

Grayson’s smile was soft, and turned up his eyes, “Did you ever doubt I would?”

Damian swallowed. He didn't want to admit to the fears that had swamped him in the box.

“Dames,” Grayson's voice was gentle, like it had been when he'd pulled Damian out, “you know your dad and I will always come for you right?”

“I should not have doubted, I know that.” Damian said.

“It’s okay,” Grayson said, “The darkness plays tricks on our brains, makes us think things that aren’t true.”

“But you came. You and Father came.”

“Always.” Grayson said. “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Damian nodded, “If you wish to.”

His brother grinned at him, “I’d love to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wasn't happy to find out Damian had been buried either.

Dick couldn’t take his eyes off Damian. The in and out of quiet breaths, soft snores, and tired mutterings were reminders that he was alive. He was okay. Or as okay as he could be at this point. Honestly how could anyone really be considered okay after being buried alive? But Damian was strong. He’d told Dick as much as he was nodding off. Not that Dick was going to let him lean on that strength. No, he’d stay by his brother as long as it took for the paleness to fade from his cheeks. For him not to flinch at shadows. For Damian to recover from whatever horrors he’d faced alone. It was the least he could do. 

Someone, either Bruce or Alfred, had let Titus into the room. The dog swept past Dick to join Damian on the bed. The boy wasted no time shifting in his sleep to throw an arm over his pet, his breathing deepening once the animal was snuggled close. 

Dick could have kicked himself for forgetting. Titus would be perfect to have by him. Of course Damian would want a companion while he’d slept. Hadn’t he wanted Dick to stay by his side while he fell asleep? The last thing he’d want would be to sleep alone. 

Dick’s heart clenched as he looked down at his brother, of course he’d forgotten. His mind had been on one thing, his little brother. All he’d wanted to do was hold onto Damian. To keep the boy in his arms from the moment he’d lifted him out of that cursed box onto forever. Dick hadn’t wanted to imagine never seeing Damian again, he hadn’t wanted to have his stomach drop at realizing his baby had been buried.

It was his fault. 

Not technically, but it was all the same. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one to start the argument that ran Damian off. He’d sided with Bruce, which had put him as much against his baby brother as Damian could imagine him to be in that moment. He’d only sided with Bruce to keep him safe. He’d only wanted his brother to rest. Look where it got him. Six feet deep. Alive. Alone. Suffocating. 

Dick’s fingers found Damian’s poking out from under his blanket. He twisted their fingers together. They’d split up. Bruce and he. Bruce finished donning his cowl then left to find Damian, and Dick was supposed to wait at the cave. Instead he’d pulled on a hoodie and gone in search of his baby brother. Damian could have gone to any of his favorite civilian hiding places. Especially if he didn’t want Bruce to find him. Most of them were places he and Dick had memories in. Wayne Tower, a bench in one of Gotham’s parks (Dick liked to call it his brooding bench). There were roofs and gargoyles, and all kinds of hiding places where a child could feel safe but hidden.  

He’d searched every one of them.

He told himself he wasn’t worried. That Bruce might find him. He’d help him stay out of trouble. And it was more likely than not he’d gone on patrol, was working some case. Dick knew his baby brother. Knew how he pushed too hard to prove himself. Knew he doubled those efforts when he felt like he’d failed. 

Dick had told Damian it wasn’t his fault the night before, there was no way they could have known the night would go so sour. He should have paid more attention to Damian’s face and tone. He’d given in too easily. He’d let Dick keep an eye on him all day, making sure he rested (lack of sleep had been one of the reasons the night before had gone bad) then he pushed as patrol was starting to join Dick and Bruce. 

Dick reached out with his other hand and brushed a curl off Damian’s forehead. The boy sighed in his sleep, Titus huffing as the breath tickled his ear. He was lucky. So so so lucky to have his brother right here, safe and sound. 

He had really, truly, worried when Damian’s distress beacon had gone off, lighting up the phone in Dick’s hand with red and noise. Damian didn’t set it off for anything. Not when he’d broken his ankle while alone on a mission. Or when Croc had pulled him into the sewers by himself. He was like Bruce, dragging himself back to the cave on his own, bleeding and bruised. Dick had lost track of the times he’d come back thinking Damian was settled in bed to find his brother injured and in need of patching up. Time and again Damian had ignored the beacon for anything regarding himself. To set it off now must mean he was in real trouble. 

Dick had run. Bolted back to his car to find the source of his brother’s tracker. It didn’t matter that he was still in his civilian clothes, or that he didn’t have any equipment, his brother was in trouble. He’d called Bruce. They’d met at the spot where the tracker was reading and found nothing. So they split up. Batman in the wearhouse, Dick outside. 

He’d known the moment he saw the freshly packed soil. The shovel left haphazardly on the ground, it’s blade half full of dirt. Robin was down there.  _ Damian _ was somewhere under that fresh dirt. Hot acid burned his throat as his stomach turned, his dinner trying to escape. Dick swallowed it back down, his heart feeling like it was going to tear from his chest. 

“Bruce!” the first call to his dad was broken, his voice cracked, and hoarse with fear, “Bruce!” he screamed again, his legs turning to jelly, knees crashing into the dirt covering his brother. His Robin. His light. His his his--

His hands dug into the dirt, grains digging into the pads of his fingers, wet mud from deeper burying itself under his fingernails. The smell of wet clay freshly dug from the ground drifted across his senses, a bright contrast to the sick in his mouth. The cuffs of his hoodie were almost instantly ruined. None of it mattered. He had to get to Damian. He could die down there if he wasn’t already--no Dick wouldn’t imagine his brother dead. He hadn’t been gone that long, his beacon had just turned one. He was okay. He had to be okay. He was going to be breathing and alive and just fine. Dick was going to be able to pull him into his arms, into safety and hold him. 

He glanced at his fingers in the moonlight, tangled in Damian’s. Little black lines ran under the nails, close to the skin. He hadn’t quite managed to scrub all the dirt out from under them in his rushed shower, his need to get back to Damian’s side. There weren’t any dark lines under Damian’s fingernails. The pink touching white.

His fingers were clean, and Dick was so so thankful for that. He couldn’t imagine the horror that would have swallowed him if Damian had tried to dig his way out. To claw at the wood separating him from the world. Dick was going to have to talk to Damian about his experience at some point after he woke up. Have to coax the story from his brother as he cocooned the boy in blankets and safe arms. He needed to make sure nothing worse had happened, and do his best to help Damian through what did.

Dick had only stopped digging when Bruce’s hand had fallen onto his shoulder. He hadn’t even heard his dad the first few times he’d said his name. Bruce had pulled him up. Hands on his shoulders even as Dick tried to tear away, screaming at him to let him go, that his brother was down there, that they didn’t have time.

Dick’s breathing was rapid. Burning from exertion. All of a sudden he  _ couldn’t  _ breathe. His brother was buried and running out of air and Dick’s lungs had decided to stop working. His brain misfiring as he panicked. He couldn’t breathe and Damian was somewhere below his feet. 

Then Bruce’s eyes were staring at his, his name a repetitive word on his dad’s tongue. When had he pulled the cowl back? Somehow Bruce talked him into breathing again, talked him down when Dick realized he’d wasted time, wasted Damian’s time, what if he’d died because Dick couldn’t keep himself together- Then he had a shovel in his hands, Bruce’s voice in his ear, “You can’t get him out with your hands alone” and he and Bruce were digging in tandem. 

He’d seen movies where shovels hit the lid of a coffin, but Dick had never experienced it before. And this was no coffin. He told himself that as he scooped the top free of dirt, dropping to his knees again to fumble for a way to open it. He heard Bruce behind him mention something about getting a crowbar or leverage. Almost the moment he was out of the hole Dick’s fingers found the lock. They’d locked his brother in, as if just burying him wasn’t enough.

He’d smashed the shovel down on the lock until it broke, then flung the piece of metal away from him so he could lift the lid. Moonlight and hard fluorescent bulbs on the wherehouse hit Robin’s red vest, touched on the line of blood running down his temple. Damian flinched back from the light and air, and Dick’s heart finally stopped trying to rip itself out of his chest. Damian had flinched. He’d flinched. His eyes squeezed shut, his chest expanding rapidly. Everything about him had been alive. 

Dick’s fingers squeezed Damian’s, he’d been curled up the same way he was curled in bed now. Except now he was safe. Dick had pulled him out of that box and stayed as close as humanly possible up to this point, and he wasn’t about to leave his brother. Couldn’t stand to leave him. 

His plan was stay awake in case any nightmares decided to surface. And if he slept peacefully until morning he’d have Dick right there by his side keeping him company. He’d have a bright happy smile to wake up to, a reminder that he was home, safe, and surrounded by people who love him. 

For all his efforts, Dick ended up falling asleep, head resting on Damian’s bed, fingers tangled in his brother’s. The relief of having him there, of having him back, had lulled him into his own rest. 

He woke to screaming. 

Damian’s hand was gone from his, Titus was barking at him from the floor beside him, the bed a writhing mess of blankets and limbs as Damian struggled, yelling and shouting. His foot missed Dick’s head by an inch, and then Dick was sitting up, diving onto the bed to catch the half conscious child in his arms, his grip winning over Damian’s terrified flailing. 

“It’s okay.” Dick said, “It’s okay, Damian. You’re safe, you’re safe.” Dick said, tugging a stilling Damian into his lap.

His brother’s shouting stopped, and he clung to Dick, arms wrapping around him, his face pressed into his chest. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. Just breathe, alright?” Dick said, tightening his hold on Damian. 

Titus’s barking stopped with a whine and Dick glanced over his shoulder to find the dog looking up at them. He motioned with his head for the dog to join them. After a moment he did, hopping up onto the bed to stick his nose under one of Damian’s arms. 

The bedroom door creaked open and Dick caught sight of a worried Alfred in the doorway. 

“It’s okay, just a nightmare.” He said. 

Alfred nodded and eased the door closed again. Dick returned his attention to Damian. He let one hand rub circles in his brother’s back, whispering anything and everything soothing he could think of. Five minutes felt like forever, as his brother’s shaky breathing slowly eased into deep even breaths, pushing against Dick’s chest they were so close.

Damian settled against Dick’s chest, silently breathing, fingers wrapped in his shirt so that he was almost pulling it up. Titus found a place to rest close to both of them, his side pressing against Damian’s. Dick hummed something old from his childhood, hand still rubbing his brother’s back.  His other arm was wrapped lightly around Damian, keeping him close. Dick was afraid if he squeezed too hard he might break his brother. He was usually so strong, but suddenly everything about him seemed like cracked glass. Too much pressure and he’d crumple in Dick’s arms.

Finally Damian’s fingers released their grip and he let out a heavy sigh. His head snuggled a bit closer to Dick’s chest.

“You okay?” Dick murmured, pressing a kiss into the top of his brother’s head. 

Damian nodded, and leaned back, not really pulling from Dick’s arms, just giving himself room. He was pale, eyes still wide from whatever nightmare he’d been struggling with.    
“Sorry.” he said, voice quiet. “I thought--I didn’t know where I was.” 

“It’s alright.” Dick said, voice still soft, “It’s why I stayed close.” 

Damian nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. One of his hands found Titus’s head and his fingers tangled in the dog’s hair. Dick reached out and brushed his cheek with the back of his hand, making Damian’s attention flit up to his face.

“It’s really okay, Dames.” Dick smiled, “No one will judge you for waking up disoriented after the night you had.” 

His brother nodded again. “Grayson?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I would like to attempt breakfast. Do you think Pennyworth would mind?” 

Dick shook his head, “I think he’d be happy to see you downstairs. You sure you don’t need a few more minutes?” 

Damian took a final deep breath, “I believe an attempt at normality will be the best thing for me right now. I want--” he paused, “I want to move.” 

He could understand that. Damian needed to walk, eat, talk with people. Find his bearings that way. Dick released his hold on Damian’s back then climbed down, holding out a hand to help his brother. 

Damian took it and let Dick help him off the bed. Together they made their way downstairs and into the kitchen. A covered tray sat on the counter. A note with both their names written in Alfred’s impeccable handwriting was stuck to it. Dick glanced at the clock on the microwave, it was well past breakfast and had Alfred not left something out Dick would be pouring cereal right now. 

As it was, Damian lifted the domed top to reveal pancakes, light and fluffy, and stacked tall enough both of them would end up stuffed if they ate the whole thing. They devoured the stack, then took a walk with Titus to work off the calories. 

Dick didn’t want to press his brother for details from the night before, but he knew Damian needed to talk about what happened. Not just for information on finding the men who’d buried him (they would find the men responsible, and Dick would make them understand just how terrible a decision they’d made), but so he could begin to process it himself. Still, he wasn’t going to force Damian to talk if he wasn’t ready for it. 

They spent most of the day not talking about it. Dick stuck close to Damian’s side through it all, as they helped Alfred with chores, ran to the store for some last minute groceries, and played a few rounds of Overwatch. Dick mentioned, hinted, and peppered suggestions that Damian might want to talk about things through the day, but his brother brushed them off with ease. 

The only time he said anything about it was when Bruce sat him down and asked outright. Then Damian gave what amounted to a debrief. An emotionless breakdown of what he’d been doing, who he’d been tracking, and what had happened. Unfortunately he hadn’t gotten a very good look at his attacker’s faces, but he promised he’d be able to tell them by their voices if it came to that. With that Bruce seemed happy, and told Damian to take a week off patrol. Dick’s gut had twisted when Damian agreed easily.

“I think I’ll stick around until then too.” Dick said. “Things have been slow enough in the Haven for me to stick around here for a while. Plus, I’d like to help.” he didn’t have to explain what he wanted to help with. That answer was easy, everything. Finding the men who’d hurt his brother, and making sure Damian was recovering alright.

Bruce agreed, but Damian had frowned at him. It wasn’t until they were alone again that his brother spoke up. 

“I can take care of myself, Grayson.” 

“I know,” Dick said, “But you wouldn’t mind me sticking around at least a few days?” 

Damian eyed him, searching his face for the reason. 

Dick crossed his arms and frowned, “No one buries my baby brother and gets away with it. I’m going to help find them whether I’m here or at my place. You know that right?” 

A faint blush colored Damian’s cheeks, “Tt. Of course. I would feel the same if our roles were swapped. I do not believe it will be a hindrance if you stayed for a few more days.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian’s sent Dick home, but knows he’s not really recovered yet, so he does the one thing he thinks will fix everything: he goes after the guys who buried him in the first place.

“Earth to, Dick, anyone in there?”

Dick’s eyes focused first on the hand waving at an unnatural speed in his face, and then the man attached to it. The redhead next from him looked a little worried, with his eyebrows turned down, but his slight smile said he was more amused than anything. Wally sat back against the couch, regarding him.

“Where’ve you been?”

Dick frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Wally rolled his eyes. “You.” he pointed at Dick, “I came by for a day of videogames and chatter and you’ve spent half the time staring into space. I’ve let you brood long enough. What’s bothering you?”

Dick sighed, and leaned back in his chair. That was a question he wasn’t sure how to start answering. He appreciated Wally’s visit. He had even been a bit excited for it, but it wasn’t doing what he was hoping it would.

“I’m worried about Damian.”

Wally’s smile fell. “I’m sure he’s fine, Dick. It’s been almost an entire week. You said he seemed alright when you left.”

Dick nodded, he’d told Wally about what happened with Damian after his friend had poked at him the whole first hour he’d been at the apartment, and from needing an outlet to release a few of the emotions churning in him. Wally had been curious partially because of Dick’s distraction, and mostly because he’d spent a week at the manor ignoring anything that wasn’t an emergency. Which meant he’d skipped out on a Titans meeting.

Telling Wally hadn’t really helped settle him, instead he’d spent the afternoon letting his mind drift back to Damian, the box, and the shaky angry way his brother had told him to leave. Dick knew he’d been helicoptering the boy, but he hadn’t meant to make Damian think he was babying him. Something in him kept screaming he should have stayed, let Damian be mad at him and think he was being overbearing. Anything to make sure his brother was okay. He knew he wasn’t yet. No one just shook off being buried.

“He did.” Dick sighed, “I mean, as fine as he can seem after something like that.”

Wally put a hand on his shoulder, the warm feeling doing more than words to ground Dick. “He just needs some time. It was a pretty scary thing he went through, and, take it from experience, it’s easier to recover from something if you’re not hovering.”

Dick let himself smile, “He hates it when I worry about him. He always feels so responsible. Only, I promised to stay the whole week, and I let him make me leave.”

His friend gave him a knowing smile, “That was his decision, give him some time, then check back in. You can’t push him if he doesn’t want it. Besides, he’s got Bruce and Alfred with him if he needs anything.”

He sighed, “I know. Still, I want to be there with him.” he ran a hand through his hair, “You know we haven’t even found the guys that did this yet?”

That more than anything had been digging at Dick. Damian had sketched what he could of their faces, which wasn’t much, and he swore up and down he could recognize their voices when they were found, but none of that helped actually finding them. The trail Damian had been following had gone cold almost as soon as Bruce and Dick had picked it up, and they’d spent days scrounging for a new lead.

Dick wanted them punished. Beyond that, he wanted them locked up so they could never hurt his brother again. He hoped that the moment they were behind bars Damian’s sleep would get even better. There was something reassuring about knowing they weren’t running around the streets of Gotham just waiting to bury Robin again.

“Bruce’ll get them.” Wally said, and Dick wished he could share his friend’s confidence.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think Bruce would find them, he was more worried about what would happen between now and then. Would Damian try to go after them? He wouldn’t put it past the kid. And even if he didn’t, there was a host of other questions. What if they found out Robin was still alive and went after him again? What if they hurt other children? How much would his brother blame himself for that?

The hand on his shoulder squeezed, “Dick, it’s going to be okay.”

He nodded, but Wally didn’t seem convinced. Dick almost squirmed under his eye.

“Alright.” Wally said, seeming resigned.

“Alright?” Dick asked.

“I’m going to go. I could run you back home, but I think maybe you’ll want time to pack and decide what excuse your going to give your brother.” Wally told him, standing.

Dick followed him, “No, you don’t have to. I’m fine, really.” 

His friend grinned at him, “Really, Dick you should know I can see right through that. What kind of friend would I be if I let you mope about? Go home, deal with Damian’s temporary irritation, and make sure he’s really alright.”

The permission seemed to lift a weight off of Dick’s shoulders. Like having someone else tell him that being worried, and wanting to act on that worry wasn't crazy or overbearing. It was normal. And okay. That Wally didn't think Dick was wrong for wanting to make sure, just to make sure, Damian was really as okay as he'd tried to claim.

“Thank you.” Dick said.

“Always, buddie. You want help packing?”  
“Yes please.” Dick grinned willing to grant that bit of extra time with his friend.

He felt guilty about cutting their time short, and wasting what they'd had. He promised himself he'd make it up to Wally later. He'd plan a whole weekend of bro time as a thank you. He didn't know what he'd do without someone like Wally in his life. And while he could have said that, he settled for swinging and arm over his friends shoulders as they moved to find his pack and begin the process of refilling it with clothes. 

* * *

Damian considered spending the day in bed. His warm blankets and Titus’ comforting presence meant he wouldn’t be doing anything that might trigger memories of the dark and wet. He could control the blanket around his shoulders, make sure the light was on in his room, and press his face up against Titus’ side. Nothing about that situation meant walls closing in on him or voices ignoring his pounding fists.

He got up instead. He changed into worn workout gear, still soft and comfortable, but in a different way. A way that came from hard work and repetitive use. One that promised a good sweat and the exhausting knowledge of movement aimed towards a goal.

He paused by the grandfather clock, fingers resting on the hands as he steeled himself to go downstairs. His body ached for movement. Muscles and limbs that were used in daily exercise protested at days of lethargy. It was beyond time for him to get back in the habit of working out. His concussion had healed, and Pennyworth had deemed him able to start working out again.

He turned the clock’s hands, opening it. He breathed deeply of the air behind it. It always smelled different than the manor. Like earth, and damp, and the smell of bats drifted through it, mixed with the purifiers Father had in place against stagnation or cave in.

Damian took the elevator down, and stepped out into air that was completely the cave’s. The rich scent of air thick with moisture and animal hit him. He could not stop his breath from catching, his chest tightening with something like fear. A shudder of ice spread across it, and the light in the cave wasn’t enough for him anymore, it was fading at the edges of his vision. He was underground, he realized. Underground, but he could move.

He forced his feet forward, and with every step breathing came easier to him. The ice in his chest changed to a chill from the air. Damian let his arms swing for the simple reason he could. There was no wood to constrain them.

He retrieved a water bottle, chilled from the refrigerator by the practice mats in the cave, and downed a mouthful. He left it by one of the mats and started a workout, stretching with deliberate movements.

This was his first trip down to the cave since Grayson and Father had brought him home, and it felt good to move again. He needed to move, and not be stagnant. If he kept sitting around his mind would never release the stupid fears running through it.

He finished stretching and moved into a slow kata exercise. He could push himself quickly, but he wanted a good workout, that lasted long enough to clear his mind and make him feel more like himself.

It was silly that he did not feel normal yet. Physically he was fine. He was no longer buried, nor almost dying. The bump to his head was healed. So why did he find himself uncomfortable in spaces that did not feel open? Why did he suddenly need to have a warm, living, creature to hold onto when he slept? He had told Grayson and Father he was fine, and he should be. It had been long enough, any other scare or accident would be forgotten by now.

The feelings and nightmares were leftovers from the men who’d thought it a good idea to bury Damian. Who had tried to kill Robin. He would not accept those. He would not. Damian had been through far worse in his training with the league. He must truly be growing weak if he could not recover from something as trivial as being buried. He had been buried before.

‘But not while you were alive’, his mind told him and Damian decided to go find a practice dummy to attack for a while, this slowness was doing nothing to get him back to a place of normality. Instead he was circling uncomfortable topics that were only making his chest twinge with fear again.

He found his katanas and lifted them, enjoying the comfortable familiarity of their weight and the way the leather of their hilts felt in his hands. These were him, or a part of him. They helped ground him in the reality of being Robin, of being Damian, of being able to take care of himself.

He could take care of himself. He was Damian Wayne. Robin. An Al Ghul. He was stronger than a scared boy trapped in a box. He sliced the head off one of the dummies, and it fell to the floor with a satisfying thump.

He had sent Grayson away because he was strong, stronger than he was allowing himself to be while Grayson was around. He was too likely to lean on his brother when he should be taking care of himself.

He practiced with his swords until the sweat dripping from his hair was burning his eyes, and his arms felt like noodles cooked to the point of disintegration. He dropped the swords with less care than they deserved in reaching for his water.

Damian twisted the lid off his bottle and drank deeply. Grayson and Father had promised they would find the men Damian had been tracking when he’d been buried, but they had gotten no further than Damian himself had the night of the trouble. Their being out and uncaptured bothered him.

It would be easy to say it bothered him because they could hurt other people. They might do just that, but it was not what bothered Damian. He did not like to think that they had gotten away because he’d failed. He had been foolish enough to be caught unaware, and he had not only failed to apprehend them, but he had caused his family undue troubled as well.

He did not think about the fact that in his dreams they had buried him again. Or how he could not stop jumping at shadows in his periphery.

There was one thing for it, he decided, screwing the cap back on, he’d have to do what he couldn’t once. Damian would have to go back after them.

He had to wait for patrol to sneak out. Father or Pennyworth would notice if he left before that. He was still supposed to be resting. He might have been cleared for practice, but he had promised his father a week of no patrol. In turn, Father had promised to go out with him the moment that was over.

Up until his practicing Damian had not wished to go out anyway. His stomach turned at the thought of pulling on his Robin uniform and stepping out into Gotham at night. Which was stupid. He had never before been afraid of patrol. He had seen worse. All of this was more proof that he needed to fix his mistake. If he did that these foolish fears would go away. He would look forward to patrol again. He would get a full night’s sleep without Titus snuggled next to him. He would be Damian again, and not this weak child he had devolved into.

He spent the day acting as he normally would so he did not cause suspicion. Father would not understand his need, nor would Pennyworth. They would use this as a reason to keep him home longer. To promise that Batman and Nightwing could take care of the problem. But Damian knew better. He needed to be out and moving.

Using his computer would not cause red flags, so Damian pulled up all of the information he could. Father and Grayson had gleaned a little more knowledge about the weapons shipping operation Damian had been onto, and he added that to his own files. He checked shipping manifests, land and water transportation, the weather, and anything he could think of to help him. He made a few educated and wild guesses.

The pieces began to click an hour or so before patrol. Damian knew exactly where he needed to go. He felt a surge of relief that it wasn’t the same warehouse district he’d last been to. This was further out, a trucking company. He could handle that.

Father left for patrol. Pennyworth wished Damian a good night, and offered assistance should Damian need it. Then he was alone. Damian gave it another half hour to ensure Pennyworth would not be dropping by again before he slipped out of his bed.

He closed the door leaving Titus and Alfred in his room, their wandering the house after spending almost a week with Damian would surely cause alarm and halt Damian’s night early. The cave was easy enough to sneak into. Pennyworth was too focused on Father’s safety to notice Damian moving silently through to collect his uniform. He changed, feeling a strange twinge as he pulled on his vest, and attached the mask to his face.

He could not tell if it was fear or excitement twisting in his stomach. Perhaps it was simply adrenalin and the thrill of doing something not allowed. Maybe it was fear for the same thing. The last time he had left on his own had been disastrous. That was why he was leaving now. To fix that mistake.

He swallowed the feeling and eased his way upstairs. It would be faster to take a vehicle, but that would require Pennyworth’s sudden deafness to the sounds of the engine and of the doors opening for him. He would have to go the long way and hope he did not miss anything important.

His focus on making it swiftly carried Damian all the way into Gotham. He paused to catch his breath on top of a short building, some kind of office empty but for the furniture inside. He was close enough to the company for a short break to pull himself together.

He began working out his plan, he would check the perimeter, careful not to be seen. Ease his way inside, find the evidence he needed, proof of who the men were, and then, then he would--his stomach lurched as the memory of the warehouse came back to him. He’d done almost the same thing and still he’d been caught unaware. What if it happened again? What if no one found him this time? Worse than that, what if Damian failed again? His feet froze his head blanked all leaving himself open to the enemy.

His head began to spin with the idea of being out on his own. Alone. With no back up. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready. He felt his breath leave his chest and he could not take it in again. What if the men were waiting for him? What if they were on the lookout for Robin and were simply waiting to bury him again?

It was stupid, but he could not erase the image of them advancing upon him again, shovels raised high. He couldn’t breathe. His ears were roaring. Any number of dangers could get to him where he was. On this stupid roof. In this stupid part of town. Stupid Damian. Stupid mistake. Stupid everything.

He couldn’t think to move even one foot. He was sure he wouldn’t make it back home on his own. He felt nailed in place. Damian couldn’t-- he didn’t know-- he was afraid. He was afraid and he couldn’t bury it under words of being strong enough or having done worse before. He was afraid and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to react. He knew with certainty that he was not ready to be standing where he was. That everyone had been right.

Tears pricked his eyes, his face hot, his chest heaving. He wanted Grayson. He had sent Grayson away, but now in this moment all he wanted was to be held by his brother and told everything would be okay. To be told it was fine to be afraid, that in time he would feel like himself again.

But, Grayson was in Bludhaven. Damian couldn’t breathe. He wanted his brother. He wanted Grayson here and now. At the very least, he needed to hear his voice. His fingers fumbled for his phone, he’d brought it with him in case anything happened again. So he would have contact with his family. His fingers found his brother’s name, the smiling image of his face beside it and he hit dial. 

* * *

Dick got the call twenty minutes outside of Gotham. The bluetooth in his helmet picked it up and he made a quick note to thank Bruce for the device the next time he had a quiet moment. Without it he’d never have known where his brother was this time.

“Grayson?” the voice was tiny, terrified, and out of breath.

Dick’s heart almost stopped again.

“Damian? Hey, kiddo, what’s wrong?” he asked, keeping his voice as gentle as he could with air rushing past him, and his own worry for his brother rising.

What if something else had happened? What if Damian was in danger again? Buried somewhere else? He knew that wasn’t likely, but that didn’t stop the fear from creeping over him.

“I--I don’t know what to do.” There was a choked sob in the admission, and Dick wished more than ever that he hadn’t left his brother alone days after he’d been buried.

He was an idiot for listing to a child who was still recovering himself. Why had he thought it was a good idea to leave Damian alone? Why hadn’t he just taken Damian’s temporary irritation with him and stayed?

“Okay, that's okay. Just tell me what you need.” he said.

“I need your help.” Damian said.

He could hear wind behind Damian, maybe the sound of a car in the distance. Was he home or had he gone into Gotham? Was he patrolling? The certainty of that felt like a brick in his stomach.

“Are you safe?” He asked.

His mind warred between stopping to pull on his uniform or just driving headlong after Damian and dealing with the consequences as Dick Grayson. This was the second time in a week his brother might be in danger and needed him that Dick had been caught outside of his own uniform.

It took Damian a moment to answer, “Yes.”

“Good.” Dick said, “You just tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. We’ll figure things out then, okay?”

“Okay.” Damian said, and sniffled, “Grayson, I’m sorry.”

It was as close as Dick had ever heard his brother get to admitting he was afraid, and that more than anything sent ripples of fear down Dick’s spine. He’d left his brother before he was ready to be on his own. Sure he’d left him with Bruce and Alfred. Sure they loved him and would take care of him. But Dick still felt like he’d betrayed Damian by leaving. He had promised. He knew his brother was being tougher than he felt.

“It’s alright. I promise it will be alright. Just tell me where you are.”

Damian rattled off an address. His voice still shaky. Dick was worried he might have a panic attack right there on the phone with him still so far away. His breathing was too rapid, his voice nothing like the confident child Dick knew and loved.

“Richard?” Damian’s voice was hurried, like something had just occurred to him “I’m in costume. I don’t want you to--”

“I’ll be there as Nightwing.” Dick confirmed, worry twisting his stomach again.

If Damian had been feeling fine he wouldn’t have needed to tell Dick he was in uniform. That was easy enough to figure out with the time and location. All he wanted to do was pull his brother into his arms and silence the fears that had shaken him so badly he’d called Dick from the middle of the edge of Gotham on his civilian line.

“Good.” There was an edge of relief to his tone, “I do not want you hurt because of me.”

The moment he was close to a safehouse Dick pulled in, changed, and was back on his bike in under five minutes. He stayed on the line with Damian until he pulled up to the building his brother was on top of. He hung up long enough to scale the ladder on the side of the building and climb up. Damian looked like a statue, his phone still held against his ear like he hadn’t realized Dick wasn’t on the other end of the line. He heard the scuff of Dick’s shoe on the graveled flat roof and turned, eyes wide like a deer.

It took him a moment to recognize that it was Dick standing across from him and the phone fell to the pebbles, Damian bolting forward. Dick covered the other half of the space between them and caught his brother as he barreled into him.

Damian’s hands gripped his shirt tightly, his face already wet as he buried it against his chest. His whole body was shaking, shuddering with sobs tearing through him. It was like a thunderstorm had set itself off inside his brother and all Dick could do was hold him as they weathered it out together.

“I’m sorry.” Damian's voice was thick with tears, “I’m sorry. I thought I could fix this. I thought if I got them, if I did it right this time--” he hiccuped. “I’m sorry.”

Dick held him as close as he could, one hand cupping the back of Damian’s head. He pressed his face into his brother’s hair and let him cry himself out. The shaking frame in his arms slowly stilled, the gasped breaths evened out into hiccups and occasional sobs. The fingers never released their hold on his shirt, but the rest of Damian seemed to slump a bit closer, trusting Dick’s hold to keep him up.

“It’s okay.” Dick said, pressing a kiss into his forehead, “It’ll be just fine.”

His brother shook his head, his face brushing against Dick’s shirt. “I’m weak.” he mutter, hate in his voice.

“You aren’t.” Dick chided his voice gentle.

“I am. I should have been able to handle this. The moment I made it into the city I fell apart. What kind of Robin does that make me?” Bitterness laced his voice.

Dick could guess that Damian was already berating himself for calling Dick. That he was telling himself all the ways this could have gone right.

“It makes you human.” Dick told him, tightening his grip on the boy in case he decided to bolt. “It means you were affected by a situation, and now you’re healing. It says nothing against your character.”

“I should be over it by now. I’ve gotten over worse things.” Damian argued, but he didn’t try to pull away.

One hand tightened in Dick’s shirt, “What is wrong with me?” his voice was a whisper, “Am I...broken?”

If Dick wasn’t already holding Damian he would have pulled him into his arms, as it was he leaned back a little to look his brother in the eyes.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” he promised, tone as serious as he could be.

“Then why--” Damian started but Dick shook his head.

“We can’t control how we react to things, or how quickly we recover from them. There is nothing wrong about that.”

Damian’s mouth opened to argue again and Dick shushed him with a finger. He moved his hand to cup his brother’s cheek, “I don’t care if you’ve ‘had worse’ or bounced back from dying as if it never happened, which let me remind you was heavily influenced by the fact that you had powers.” Dick said, “The past doesn’t matter with regards to the present and how you react now. It’s okay to need to take more time to recover from this. No one is going to judge you for it, and you aren’t weak to admit that.”

Damian’s hands loosened from Dick’s shirt, one reaching up to take the wrist cupping his cheek, “I just wanted to make it better. I wanted to feel like myself again.”

Dick’s hand pulled away from his brother’s face, turning to let Damian slip his own hand from his wrist and into his palm.

“You are yourself, and even if you don’t feel like it right now you’ll get there.” he squeezed the small hand in his own, “And I’m going to stay until you do feel that way again. I promise. No more of this letting you talk me into stupid things stuff.”

Damian twisted his fingers between Dick’s, “I did not want to worry you. I wanted to be better, I hoped it would help.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t.” Dick said, “I wish it had, but sometimes we can’t just will ourselves fixed. I do promise I’ll help in whatever way I can.”

He pressed his forehead against Damian’s, “I promise, kiddo. It’ll get better, you will feel normal again.”

Damian stared at him for a moment before closing his eyes, “Okay.” he said, eyes opening again, “I trust you.” 

* * *

Damian let his brother help him down and off the roof. He was still shaky, his limbs wobbling like jello. He was sure he would have fallen if Grayson wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure how he’d stood while waiting for Grayson to arrive. Part of him would admit it was the panic settling in his bones that had rooted him in the spot. The other part didn’t want to think about it.

“Gimme a sec to grab the bike and we’ll head home.” Damian could hear the smile in Grayson’s voice as he turned to retrieve the motorcycle he’d come in on.

As he left, Damian found himself almost smiling as well. Grayson had come. Damian had called and he’d come, all the way from Bludhaven. Even after Damian had sent him away, and had yelled at him to stop babying him.

A man stepped around the building, then another following close. Both were in dark clothes, the first one’s hands were waving, like he’d been discussing something. His hands dropped, one pointing at Damian.

“The hell?” the first one said, and Damian felt his spine stiffen, “I thought we offed that brat.”

“What? Oh.” The other finally looked, and sneered, light catching his teeth, “Guess we’d better try again.”

Those voices. Damian knew them. They’d haunted his dreams since the night they’d buried him. Floating through the warehouse, then muffled between wood, dirt, and air. He would know them anywhere. Their figures were familiar enough, and Damian knew he’d recognize their faces when they drew close enough for the light on the side of the building to hit them to fully illuminate features still somewhat shadowed.

He thought fury would rise up in him. Anger. Action. All Damian felt instead was paralyzing fear. It was wrong, his mind yelled, Damian did not freeze at the sight of an enemy. He did not hold back his wrath when he saw someone who had wronged him. Mother had taught him that. All the warmth and comfort Grayson had just poured into him froze as if he’d been shot by Freeze. Nothing wanted to move. He couldn’t breathe and not because he couldn’t catch his breath, but because his chest would not let air in.

They were advancing on him, and there was nothing Damian could do to stop them. Their taunts about a poor scared boy flitting over him in the wake of his trying to move. He couldn’t do anything. He was going to die. He was going to die because he was weak and foolish and afraid.

“Alright, now we can--” Grayson’s voice cut off. Beside Damian the man’s posture moved from relaxed to taught with fury as he noticed Damian’s distress and the men approaching. “These them?” he asked, his voice as cold as Damian’s chest.

Damian didn’t need to answer. Grayson made the decision himself, darting forward faster than Damian had seen him move before. His escarmas were in his hands before Damian realized they’d been removed from his back. Guns were drawn, the men yelled, Grayson roared. Damian couldn't move.

He stared as his brother took them down, a hit to the back of one’s leg, just behind his knee. His escarma jabbing into the man’s back as he fell. He spun, another kick landing in the second man’s stomach, the gun knocked away the next instant. The man caught his balance, tried to throw a punch. Electricity flared at the end of Grayson’s escarma a moment before it landed in the man’s open side. He fell like a sack. 

The first man began to rise as Grayson moved to zip tie the second’s hands behind his back. Damian couldn’t find his voice, but his whole body seemed to be released from a spell, his brother was in danger. It no longer mattered who these men were, or what they’d done, Damian would not let them hurt Grayson.

The man hit Grayson in the back of his head with his gun, making him stumble forward, tripping over the second. A moment later Damian plowed into him, his whole body a missile knocking the man down. One, two, three good punches to his face and he watched unconsciousness drop over the man.

Damian scrambled back to his feet, eyes searching for his brother, “Nightwing?” 

He found him pushing himself up on his palms. Damian hurried over to help him stand. Grayson’s hand rubbed the back of his head, more out of reflex then attention to it. His attention was aimed at Damian.

“You okay?” he asked, “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Of course not, you idiot. I’m not the one who got clobbered over the head because he wasn’t paying attention!” Damian snapped.

He was angry and terrified and sick. He hadn’t meant to snap, but Grayson shouldn’t have charged them like that. One of them could have shot him.

“What were you thinking?” he asked, stepping back from Grayson, “You could have been killed.”

“They hurt you.” Grayson said, anger still coursing through him, “They buried you.” 

The word seemed to break Grayson, and his face softened, then fell. Both hands were cupping Damian’s cheeks now, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to--I shouldn’t have. What kind of example am I?”

Damian’s anger and fear disappeared, replaced by confusion, “What are you talking about?”

“I snapped. I’ve told you a hundred times to control your emotions in the field, and here I am throwing all that out the window. I just... they almost took you from me again.”

Damian didn’t know what to do. Or what to feel for that matter. He was happy. Happy his brother had been so angry for him it had overridden everything else. Sad that he’d put him in the position he had to. But that didn’t erase the pleasure filling him up. The joy that beyond Grayson’s words, he’d actually done something. Not that he wouldn’t have in any other situation, but his feelings were so that he’d acted instead of thought, or stopped to teach.

Damian threw his arms around his brother’s middle, jostling his hands from his face. “Thank you.” he said, then stepped back, attention turning to the men.

“I will tie him up, you finish with that one.” Damian said, pointing. “Then we will call the authorities, and after I would like to return home.”

“I think that is a very good idea.” Grayson said, “On the way, we’ll figure out how to tell your dad you snuck out.”

Damian leaned over to begin securing the man’s wrists, “He will be pleased we caught the perpetrators.”

“He’ll be mad you put yourself in danger.”

“But he will be happy I am safe.”

“He’ll probably ground you.” Grayson said, looking over at him from where he was pulling the zip tie tight.

“Not if you step in.” Damian said, straightening, “You can always talk him out of grounding me.”

His brother chuckled, “Only if you promise to stay home a few more days. And let me stick around. Two close calls in a week are too much for me.” He swung an arm over Damian’s shoulders and pulled him close.

Damian wrinkled his nose, “That is basically grounding.”

He let himself lean into his brother as Grayson made the call, and led them back to the motorcycle. A few more days of quite with Grayson around wouldn’t be too bad. It was something he even looked forward to. Not that he’d admit that.

“It’s not if it means I get to take you out for ice cream tomorrow.”

Damian considered this and nodded, “That sounds like an excellent compromise.”

“I thought it would.” his brother said, letting go to help him onto the bike, and hand him a helmet.

“Grayson?” Damian said, as his brother settled on.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Always, Little D.”

Damian wrapped his arms around his brother’s middle as the motorcycle started up and smiled into his back. He wasn’t fine. His mind was still churning, even now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be. He had Grayson, and Father, and the rest of his family. He would be fine again, and his family would be there for him until he felt that way.


End file.
